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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624223">Accident Prone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets'>easystreets</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the desperate type [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bandom, My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Yearning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:15:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,861</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624223</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His hair is all slick with rain by the time they get back, giggling as Ray tries to open the front door with freezing hands and the rusted spare key that's been rotting under a planter for the better part of a decade. It's cold out, raining the way Jersey gets in the spring, and somehow Mikey's wearing his coat, a little loose in the shoulders and wide at the neck. Ray idly thinks, I should be freezing, but he doesn't feel it, not when he looks at Mikey. His cheeks are a flushed sort of pink from the wind, and his eyelashes are wet. The faint lamplight inside highlights the softness of his skin and sort of makes him look like the kind of painting you'd see at church. Or at one of those crumbling art museums Gerard dragged them to once.</i>
</p><p>  <i>He's beautiful.  </i></p><p>  <i>"Water," Ray says, pushing down the feelings. The terrible horrible stomach-winding Mikey feelings. "Or you're gonna be dead tomorrow."<i></i></i></p><p>  <i><br/><i>Wherein Ray comes to terms with being gay, being a kickass guitarist, and loving Mikey. Not necessarily in that order.</i><br/></i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero &amp; Ray Toro &amp; Gerard Way &amp; Mikey Way, Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Ray Toro/Mikey Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the desperate type [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Accident Prone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thank you for reading! i hope you enjoy this ridiculously long fic as much as i loved writing it. also-- you don't need to read the previous fic in this series. i mean, you can if you want but they're just disjointedly related lol. happy reading! &lt;3</p><p>trigger warnings for: suicidal thoughts, homophobia, minor use of the f-slur, and mental illness. there's also a bit of canon divergence but everything's roughly the same. i am basing this off the stage personas of MCR, not the real people. i promise you i am not that much of a weird person. xo.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His hair is all slick with rain by the time they get back, giggling as Ray tries to open the front door with freezing hands and the rusted spare key that's been rotting under a planter for the better part of a decade. It's cold out, raining the way Jersey gets in the spring, and somehow Mikey's wearing his coat, a little loose in the shoulders and wide at the neck. Ray idly thinks, <em>I should be freezing</em>, but he doesn't feel it, not when he looks at Mikey. His cheeks are a flushed sort of pink from the wind, and his eyelashes are wet. The faint lamplight inside highlights the softness of his skin and sort of makes him look like the kind of painting you'd see at church. Or at one of those crumbling art museums Gerard dragged them to once.</p><p>He's beautiful.  </p><p>"Water," Ray says, pushing down the feelings. The terrible horrible stomach-winding Mikey feelings. "Or you're gonna be dead tomorrow." </p><p>"Ew," Mikey says, but he takes the glass anyway. His throat bobs when he swallows, and Ray shakes his head like he's an Etch-A-Sketch and that'll erase whatever dirty thoughts he's having. Discreetly, with his head bent under the kitchen faucet, he tries to reason with the stupid lovesick part of himself.</p><p>He's drunk. He's spent a lot of time with Mikey recently and maybe he's feeling a bit lonely. He's one of his closest friends and he doesn't want to fuck up what they already have.</p><p>Ray repeats this to himself as he brushes his teeth and changes his rain-drenched clothes while Mikey watches from his bed, long legs kicking against it. He feels stupidly self-conscious and hates himself for it. Nothing's changed, but somehow everything's different. He reminds himself, <em>you're drunk you're drunk you're drunk</em> when Mikey peels off his t-shirt and puts on one of Ray's sweatshirts and a pair of pajama pants with sharks on them. Ray's never really liked them before, but now? Those are suddenly his favourite pants ever, short and tight on Mikey's ass, the drawstrings untied.</p><p>"Night," he says, when they're both crammed into Ray's bed, twin glasses of water and aspirin on the nightstand, alongside Mikey's folded glasses. The room is warm and blurry and he could maybe stay here forever, shoulders pressed with Mikey, neck awkwardly craned. </p><p>"Ray?" Mikey says, eyes wide and warm, looking up at him, "I like a boy."</p><p>Oh. "Oh," Ray says. A boy. Not him, probably some tattooed drummer in a New York band or one of Gerard's art school friends with the piercings and small hands. Not him. </p><p>"Yeah," Mikey sighs. "I dunno what to do. I mean, I like him, but does he like me?"</p><p>"I get that," Ray says slowly. Yeah. Totally. He doesn't know anyone who would turn down Mikey. "I--uh," he pauses, takes a messy sip of water so he can think of something nice to say without coming off as a total fucking creep. It's not often that Mikey opens up, and when he usually does, it's to Gerard. This is something special he can't fuck this up. "I think anyone would be lucky to have you. Just keep doing whatever you're doing, dude," Ray pats him on the shoulder, "you're Mikey. He'll figure it out."</p><p>"You think so?" Mikey says, half-asleep. Ray flicks off the lamp and stares at the dark corners of his room, where the yellowy walls meet the floor. His heart hurts; when Mikey presses into his touch he cuddles back. His body is a betrayal.</p><p>-</p><p>After Mikey leaves, Ray thinks of every boy he knows. Every guy that Mikey could possibly be into.</p><p>Not him, he repeats. It couldn't be. It shouldn't be: Ray isn't gay or anything, he's always <em>liked</em> girls. There's nothing about him, no shy suggestion like Gerard, where a lilt of his eyebrows is just enough to know, or some loud proclamation, that this is who he is and fuck you if you don't like it, the way Frank is whenever assholes in mosh pits and seedy bars dare to question him. Mikey's gonna date some guy like that: proud and open and dark-eyed and terrifying, because Ray is mostly straight and too scared to ever ruin what they already have: a friendship of close calls and shared beds and a gentle understanding of the other.</p><p>He doesn't want to lose this. He can't lose this. He lies in bed until the sky's going down again, dark orange and tiger stripes of cream across it. If he doesn't move much, he can still feel where Mikey's been, where he should be.</p><p>-</p><p>Frank's driving him to a show when he says, "so, what the hell are you into?"</p><p>"Right now," Ray says, carefully watching the speedometer since Frank drives like he's auditioning for Nascar. "Hmm. Right now, I'd say Metallica. And I know it's trite or whatever, but they're popular for--"</p><p>Frank laughs so hard his face turns red and he gasps and Ray starts looking for the inhaler Frank's supposed to keep with him 24/7 but never remembers to bring. Thankfully, he takes one hand off the wheel and gives him the okay sign with his fingers.</p><p>"What?" Ray says, once Frank's recovered.</p><p>"I meant like, are you into dick or chicks?" Frank sighs. "Oh, God. You just wanna fuck your guitar."</p><p>"Fuck you," Ray says affectionately. "You're a little shit, you know that?"</p><p>"Didn't answer my question," Frank says, tapping his feet at a red light. There's something poppy and miserable on the radio, but he doesn't reach to change it because that is... a good fucking question and changing the subject would be wrong. Fuck if he knows. It makes him embarrassed and fifty shades of sick on the inside, because Frank is probably the least judgmental person about shit like that. He shouldn't feel wrong about it, there shouldn't be a tidal wave of stomach acid threatening to crawl up his throat when he thinks about maybe being a guy who likes guys. </p><p>"I-- why?" Ray stalls. He briefly wonders if he could just, like, crawl out of the window or something. </p><p>"Curious," Frank says. "And I know a few dudes who want to get with someone new to the whole gay scene."</p><p>"Didn't you tell me that it was rude to ask gay people questions about their sex lives?" Ray retaliates. It's cheap and he knows it, stupidly defensive for an innocent question.</p><p>"So you are gay," Frank says, shrugging his shoulders. "It's cool, man. Everyone else is. Me, Gee, Mikes, that kid from the copy shop, and like, half of New York."</p><p>"I'm--" Ray stutters. His cheeks are way too red and the heater that only works half the time is suddenly way too hot. "The kid from the copy shop? Which one?"</p><p>"Kyle," Frank says, like Ray's stupid. He looks it now, hands sweaty and teeth sinking into his bottom lip so that he stops feeling sick. "Whatever, man. Cool no matter which way you go, I was just wondering."</p><p>Frank flicks his turn signal and they keep driving for what feels like forever, until they drive over a pothole and the radio cuts out with a soft whimper. </p><p>"Um, listen, dude--" Frank says, a little apologetic.</p><p>"Straight." Ray lies, cutting him off. "I'm straight." He never knew his voice could sound like that: cold and cutting, painful. </p><p>"Okay," Frank says, fidgeting with the dial. "Sure."</p><p>The look on his face says he doesn't quite believe Ray. (Ray isn't so sure about that either.)</p><p>-</p><p>He doesn't avoid Mikey. </p><p>He can't avoid him: stupid school-girl crush or not, they're still best friends. He spends more time at Mikey's house, rotting in that basement, than his own. They balance each other out like that: Mikey's dark and sharp angles, head constantly crooked down at a comic book or his Blackberry. Ray isn't exactly one of those guys who walks around with his head held high and chest pushed back like he's in the military or something, but he also didn't have Gerard as one of his only male role models growing up. He's tall and solid from helping his dad out, and he tends to look before crossing the street. They make a good team like that.</p><p>"Hi," Mikey says, when he rings the doorbell. He could've just walked right in-- he's done it before; even climbed through a window at the Way's house once, when nobody was home and he needed to return the library book that Gee had borrowed from him-- but that had suddenly seemed like too much when he'd arrived at the house with boots drenched with the last dregs of melting snow, shy hands hidden in his pockets. "You wanna help Gerard with his final project?"</p><p>"Sure," Ray says.</p><p>"It's paper-mache." Mikey says, like that explains anything. He turns on his heel and waits awkwardly while Ray unties his boots, his hands clumsy with frost. </p><p>"Cool," Ray replies. He follows Mikey to the basement, hopping over an awry laundry basket with cleaning supplies dangerously scattered on top, and a few scattered figurines on the stairs that he almost impales himself on. Fucking Way brothers, he thinks. </p><p>"Careful," Mikey says. "There's like, droids and shit at the bottom." He hops over a grey pile of plastic droids with grace, like some sort of slinky cat or something. "Gerard, you need to clean your shit up. I don't know how you get Frank to go down here," Mikey admonishes, and Ray laughs. If Mikey thinks something's messy, then it's probably a slum.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Gerard says. His room kind of is a slum: there's drop cloths on the floor, and a few ashtrays precariously balanced on the windowsill and stuffed animals, plus the copious amount of empties lolling on the floor. "Pass me the paint-- red one, <em>maroon</em>, Mikey, I have like eighteen hours to do this, what the fuck, hi Ray, red, please." </p><p>"You can soak the strips," Mikey instructs. Ray does it, after Gerard models it for him a few times. Mikey holds his hands to show him how he wants him to lay the newsprint down, and Ray's heart beats so fast he's worried Mikey can hear it. Mikey doesn't though, just demonstrates way more than he needs to, which Ray totally doesn't mind.</p><p>It's actually pretty relaxing. He soaks the strips and passes them to Mikey, who adds them to the giant bloody anatomically correct heart Gerard's making. There's supposed to be two guys carved out inside the heart, which terrifies Ray a little, because he really doesn't trust either of the Way brothers with a sharper object than a butter knife, but it looks great, so good that they keep on painting and gluing and listening to whatever Gerard has playing--some melty shoegaze, calm and wintry--until it's dark out.</p><p>"Fuck," Gerard says. "I need a break. I need to like, never do art again for at least the next fifteen minutes." He rubs his hands on his jeans and then through his hair, shivers a little when he stands up. "Do we have Polysporin? Or that shit that makes your back not hurt?" Ray loves Gerard, really, but God is he dramatic. </p><p>Mikey sighs. "Aspirin. You only take one, it's in Mom's side of the bathroom upstairs." He's on his phone, texting ridiculously fast. Ray wonders who he's texting, if he's a boyfriend or someone else, just a hookup or a fuckbuddy. He's not usually the jealous type, but then again, Mikey's not usually his type either.</p><p>"Does anyone else want anything?" Gerard says when he's half-up the stairs, like he just remembered there's people in his bedroom. Ray gets it; when it's just him and his guitar, he can be pretty absorbed, too. "Snacks or like, booze? Ray? Mikes?"</p><p>"Booooooze," Mikey says. "And Pringles." </p><p>"Mom made dinner," Gerard yells. "Do you want some? Ray, will you eat spaghetti?" </p><p>"It's nearly midnight," Ray says.</p><p>"So?" Gerard says. </p><p>"No thank you, Gerard," Ray says, because the concept of ordinary meal times is pretty much lost on the Ways. Besides, he's sort of tired.</p><p>"Gerard's such a girl," Mikey mumbles, when Gerard's out of earshot. He flops down on the bed, narrowly avoiding burning his leg on a stray hot glue gun. </p><p>"Careful," Ray says, and unplugs it, winds it neatly on Gerard's desk. </p><p>"Come sit," Mikey says. "Warm me up. His room's fucking freezing. The one time he lets some fresh air in, and it's raining out."</p><p>"Yeah," Ray responds. He awkwardly crawls across the messy sprawl of sheets and ink-stained blankets, until he's side-by-side with Mikey. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, aside from the stuffed cat that's digging into his back. He moves a little to toss it gently off the bed, and when he's back, Mikey's way closer, shoulders pressed against his.</p><p>"Warm me up, Toro." Mikey complains. "You're like-- like a heater."</p><p>"Am not," Ray protests, wrapping his arms around Mikey. He really hopes he doesn't somehow make this weird. Or-- oh God-- get a boner.</p><p>"Are too," Mikey mumbles. "And you smell good. Like outside." He pauses for a moment, inhales. "Like Guitar Center."</p><p>Ray laughs at that. "Guitar Center?" </p><p>He can't see Mikey's face from behind, but he knows he's doing a little dorky smirk, all shy like it's a crime to smile or something. He loves these smiles, treasures them, keeps them in his back pocket for a rainy day. "Yeah," Mikey says, his voice warm. </p><p>"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."</p><p>"It is," Mikey says. "If we both fall asleep, do you think Gerard will be mad?"</p><p>"Gerard's never mad at you." He's annoyed at Mikey sometimes, sure, and once or twice they've elbowed each other, but Ray's never actually seen them argue over anything more than X-Men or radioactivity. Regular guy stuff. "I don't think anyone ever could be mad at you, Mikes."</p><p>Mikey turns to face Ray, and holy shit, Ray can't help but blush. </p><p>"Hi," Ray says. "Take your glasses off before you go to sleep."</p><p>"Yes, mom," Mikey rolls his eyes, but he lets Ray take his glasses off. His face is so cold and so soft, almost like a girl's, and Ray's hands linger longer than they should. Mikey nuzzles into his chest, tucking his head in, and Ray lays sideways, watches the crest of his chest rise and fall, feel his spidery hands webbing around his body.</p><p>-</p><p>He does, eventually, fall asleep. He's tired and Mikey is right there, and when he wakes up, they're snuggled around each other, and Gerard's standing over them with a dented Polaroid camera, the flash annoyingly bright. </p><p>"What the hell," Ray says. He doesn't even ask-- he doesn't even want to know, he's so comfortable.</p><p>"I know," Gee says. "Polaroids are kinda out of style, it's all digital now."</p><p>"Huh," says Ray. </p><p>"He's sleeping," Gerard shushes him. "Watch him. He says shit in his sleep."</p><p>"Says what?" Ray whispers. He doesn't move.</p><p>"Well, when we shared a room, it was <em>aliens</em> or the name of the one girl from Baywatch. Or he'd be like, <em>Gerard, go, go get the gun,</em> which really freaked me out, because he wouldn't remember in the morning why exactly I had to go get the gun, or like, what the gun was even for." Gerard pauses, kicks at Mikey's shin gently. "When he had a crush, like the biggest Mikey crush I'd ever seen, on this girl named Jennifer, he'd say <em>Jennifer </em>in his sleep."</p><p>They're silent for a bit. "Weird," Ray says finally. "If you ask him something will he answer?"</p><p>Gerard shakes his head; he's perched so awkwardly on the end of his bed that Ray kinda wants to reach out and steady him. Only he can't, because Mikey's sleeping so peacefully, his hair all fluffed up and his face curved in an almost-smile.</p><p>"Lemme show you the project, I moved it to the hallway so I could carve last night," Gee says. "He won't wake up, trust me. He slept through a power outage, he slept through a fucking car accident once."</p><p>"Sweet," Ray says. He doesn't wanna get up, but he peels himself away. </p><p>"Ray," Mikey mumbles. It's practically silent, but they both hear it. "Ray, come back."</p><p>"Oh," Gerard says, and then, "he's never said a friend's name before. Usually it's just girls."</p><p>-</p><p>He's at this party, this fucking party, and the place is crawling with people. Ray's drunk, falling down drunk, and the music's loud, shaking the entire place, not good but something resonant, something to fill the cavity of his chest and beat through his blood like an anthem. His heart's crawling in his throat and his mouth burns-- fucking tequila hangovers, the sober part of his mind reminds him. He usually never gets this shitfaced. He usually makes sure Frank isn't picking fights with people twice his size and that Gerard isn't overdoing it and that Mikey has an out from the masses of girls and guys that perch on him, just in case he needs it. He's fucking responsible, the DD or the guy sober enough to make sure everyone has a ride home or a corner of a living room to pass out in.</p><p>But he's <em>drunk</em>. Shitfaced, and not in that comfortable warm way. He's never been this drunk before. Some part of him thought it would solve the Mikey problem, that he'd be inebriated enough to kiss him and pass it off as a joke in the morning if he didn't want it, if Mikey pushed him away. Some part of him thought it would make things easy, that the booze would connect some wires in his brain and he'd be able to turn off his stupid crush just like that. </p><p>Instead he's kicking his feet against a stranger's porch. There's a dog, a fucking sweetheart of a dog, and he's feeding her Lays because he's pretty sure dogs can have those and this one fucking deserves it. The music-- something horrible and awful, what you'd hear in a grocery store-- is blaring loud enough that if he lays down on the deck he can feel it reverberating in his ribs. Ray lays and looks up at the stars and lets the dog eat potato chips out of his hands. </p><p>He never wants to leave this freezing cold deck, where all he can see are the falling-down stars and there's nothing inside his head to turn over.</p><p>"Time to go," says a voice. "Holy shit, who the hell are you getting so drunk over?"</p><p>"Frankie," Ray whines. "You're not strong enough to take me home. I want-- I want Mikey."</p><p>"Fuck you," Frank says, hopping on his feet. There's a black eye that wasn't there before. "Mikey's a fucking string bean."</p><p>"Mikey." Ray demands. "Mikey'll get me home safe."</p><p>"Mikey's probably finger-deep inside some chick," Frank spits. He drinks one of Ray's beers and scratches the dog's neck.</p><p>Ray frowns. He really didn't want to hear that. "Tell him it's me. Tell him I wanna go home."</p><p>"What's your deal?" Frank finally says. He looks down at Ray and reaches out an arm. "You never get shitfaced."</p><p>"First time for everything," Ray shrugs. Sitting up makes him dizzy but he feels warmer, at least. The dog licks the salt from his hand.</p><p>"People only get shitfaced for a reason, dude." Frank says. "Who is it? Is it a who? Do you have like gonorrhea or something and that's why you're getting drunk, because you have to like, get your dick chop--"</p><p>"Gross." Ray says. "Frankie, what the fuck."</p><p>"Who is it?" Frank presses. His lip is bleeding too, and he spits again and sends blood flying out into the unmowed lawn. Ray feels like he's in a horror movie. Ray feels like he's in a horror movie and everything's terrible and Frank's mouth is soaked in fucking blood and he's probably spitting out teeth because it's cheaper than the dentist and Mikey's with some girl inside and the dog on the deck probably never gets walked enough or at all. "Do I need to kick someone's ass? Bitch out some girl?"</p><p>"Just get me Mikey," Ray says. "I'm gonna puke."</p><p>He does. He throws up on Frank's Sharpie-covered sneakers and the dog stares at him while he does it. He doesn't feel any emptier afterward, though.</p><p>-</p><p>They play together sometimes. </p><p>Stones and Joy Division. If Gerard's over he'll sing or half-heartedly drum along on the old Formica table down in the basement, but only they play together.</p><p>Mikey presses his head to his, and Ray strums so fast his fingers burn. He can feel the electricity like this; feel the current run through them. </p><p>-</p><p>When Frank's mom goes out of town, they have a fucking slumber party, because they're losers and dorks and Ray loves his friends.</p><p>They watch B movies and eat cheap popcorn that they steal from movie theatre dumpsters. Mikey sleeps on the couch and Ray takes the floor. When they think they're out cold, Frank and Gee run off, giggling and blowing glossy kisses at each other. </p><p>"You ever think I'll have that?" Mikey asks. There's sunlight streaming in and the window's cracked open, with the gusts of wind blowing his hair back. He could be a model, Ray thinks.</p><p>"Yeah!" Ray says, a little too fast. "Mikes, anyone would be lucky to have you."</p><p>"Thanks," Mikey says offhandedly, and then he's texting someone on his phone and Ray's finding another movie to put in, something to fill the weird empty space.</p><p>"They're being quiet," Ray says, when they're a third of the way into Aliens. "That's something."</p><p>"Just wait," Mikey says, with a war-torn face, like he's heard worse at home. "Frankie's <em>loud</em>."</p><p>"Wanna go for a walk?" Ray asks. They're in pajamas and Mikey's wearing a robe with kittens on it. </p><p>"Yeah." Mikey says. "A walk would be good. It's really cold in here."</p><p>"You're always cold," Ray says. Mikey shoves his fucking freezing hands up his shirt, because of course he does, and Ray almost kisses him right then and there. Almost.</p><p>Instead he wrenches away. "Holy shit, Mikes." Ray shakes his head, smiling. "Fucking corpse. Let's go warm you up."</p><p>It's hot out still, those warm halcyon days of summer where the sun doesn't set 'til nearly midnight, and Mikey squints the moment he's outside. He looks like a stranger in this weird corner of Jersey suburbia, all dark on the saturated summer streets.</p><p>"Better?" Ray says. They hook their hands together without even really realizing it, like that's just how they're meant to be. </p><p>The sidewalk is cracked, so they're careful, stepping gingerly in their scuffed sneakers. There are still a few groups of kids out, playing Bump or racing bikes around the block; old people and couples walking just like they are, arm in arm. None of the air is stale, nothing smells like cigarettes and he's stone cold sober. In a backyard, a radio's humming and a fire's smoking up. It's peaceful, a comfortable silence where nobody says anything because they don't have to-- anything they'd ever want to tell each other exists in the crooks of each other's hands, in the soft lines of their palms. When they're almost back, Ray hears the ice cream truck, and before he even says anything, they're both running for it.</p><p>"My treat," Ray says breathlessly. He's pretty sure there's a few dollar bills tucked into his wallet. They only have enough money for one Popsicle, just pocket change, but he doesn't mind sharing. </p><p>"Me and Gerard always used to eat those lemon ice things at my Grandma's," Mikey says when they're walking back. "You know, like the ones in the container?"</p><p>"Yeah," Ray says. He licks the red part off until Mikey's clawing at his arm. "What?"</p><p>"Red's the best."</p><p>"Blue is." Ray says. "That's why they make it the biggest section of the popsicle."</p><p>"It's <em>blueberry</em>," Mikey says, in this disgusted voice. Ray's laugh echoes throughout the entire neighborhood and they finish the popsicle on the swing-set in Frank's backyard. It's rusted and probably rife with tetanus, and Ray wants to lick the melted Popsicle juice off Mikey's fingers so bad it hurts.</p><p>-</p><p>"I'm gay," he says to the mirror. No. Fuck. That doesn't feel right. He doesn't <em>not</em> like girls. He'd be with a girl now if it weren't for Mikey. Ray tries again, clears his throat. "I like guys?" That's better. "I would like to-- I wanna date a guy." Too stiff. The mirror in the bathroom is stark and unforgiving. "I like you," he offers. "I want to kiss a guy." Well, not just any guy. "Mikey." Ray says. "I like guys. I like guys." He shakes his head; this is serious and he shouldn't be fucking laughing.  "I am interested... in men." Ray glances back at the door. No one's home; he checked and double-checked all the rooms and even locked the doors. He's still nervous though. "I would like to date a guy. A man. With a dick." He flicks off the bright bathroom light, nearly trips over his brother's dirty laundry running into the hallway. "I'm gay!" Ray yells shakily. "I like guys!" It's honestly terrifying, but fuck if he doesn't feel free, yelling that he likes boys in his empty house on a Saturday afternoon. "I'm into guys," he whispers to himself. Maybe it's pathetic, but admitting it to yourself is the first step, right?</p><p>-</p><p>9/11 happens and they watch it on the TV, huddled in the basement. Mikey cries into Ray's shirtsleeve even though he knows Gerard's okay, like if he can't touch him then he's as good as gone. Ray can't say anything to make him feel better. All he can do is watch the towers fall and hold him close. </p><p>-</p><p>They start a band. It's just natural progression, really. The four of them all like music. Gerard can sing, even if he can't play guitar at the same time, and Mikey might have stage fright but as long as he turns his back to face Ray and the drummer-- who they still need to find, okay, because right now they're having random guys fill in-- he's fine. Frankie's a fucking star, with the way he slides and writhes around the stage, and Ray's first love was his guitar, as tragic as his brothers say that is.</p><p>(Whatever. They don't get it. They've never plugged into an amp before, or played until their hands cut open. They don't know.)</p><p>Their first show is on a Monday night, at some dirty bar Frankie can't even legally go into. The audience is mostly dead, but they like them enough that by the end they're crowding by the stage, headbanging a little. They make forty bucks between them, and Ray spends his on drinks at the bar.</p><p>"I was so nervous," Mikey says. He looks it, too: his voice is wrecked, like it was him belting his heart out up there instead of Gerard, and his hands are still shaking. </p><p>"You did great," Ray says. "They asked if they can book us again, dude."</p><p>"I was so nervous," Mikey repeats. "I mean, you guys are so good. I'm just here because..." he trails off, shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'm like a tag-a-long, you know?"</p><p>"No," Ray frowns. "Don't say that."</p><p>"I don't even know like, basic shit. I can barely play." Mikey kicks his feet against the flimsy barstool. "If we ever get big you guys should drop me or find a better guy. Someone who can actually play without freaking out and fucking up."</p><p>"Mikey!" Ray yells, a little too loud for the near-empty bar. "If we didn't want you in the band, we wouldn't have you."</p><p>Mikey sighs. "But I'm so nervous."</p><p>"You shouldn't be," Ray says. "You did so good."</p><p>"There was, what, twenty people?" Mikey steals a sip of Ray's drink. It's just plain Coke-- someone has to drive-- but he downs half of it anyway. "And I thought I was gonna puke."</p><p>"So what if you puke? You're still our Mikey." Ray says, and he's never believed in anything, anyone, more in his life until now. "You're still our bassist."</p><p>Next show, they're in a club, and it's a big place. Even Ray is a bit on edge; he runs through his scales and all his parts, and then Frank's, just in case they somehow body-swap. There's a dressing room and everything, but they still get ready in the van, with something rough and gritty playing and cigarette smoke thick in the air.</p><p>"Pretty," Frank says, watching Gerard put on his eyeliner.</p><p>"I wanna be pretty," Mikey mumbles. He's three beers in, and his cheeks are starting to get flushed. "Make me pretty, Gee?"</p><p>"Sure," Gerard says. He does something quick with his hands and suddenly Mikey's eyes are rimmed underneath with dark eyeliner. It's not as shocking as Gerard's, or as messy as Frank's, but it looks good against his eyes. "Ray?" Gerard asks, when he notices Ray staring.</p><p>"No." Ray smiles weakly. "I'll sweat it off."</p><p>"Waterproof," Gerard says, but doesn't press it. He hums through the sticky parts in songs he has trouble with, and Ray finally goes inside to practice a few riffs that he just can't get to click. </p><p>He's halfway though <em>Honey</em> when someone taps him on the back.</p><p>"Um," Mikey says. "Does my bridge here sound right?"</p><p>He plays, his hands fast but shaky, and looks up expectantly at Ray. His eyes are so big and dark; Ray could live in them. </p><p>"Yeah! How about we go through a bit of <em>Skylines</em>, though, just so we're in synch?" Ray offers. "And then we could do a bit of <em>Drowning</em> if you want."</p><p>"Here," Mikey says. He starts, leaning into it and Ray follows, practiced and relaxed. He can pretty much disappear inside his guitar, inside the soft hum of the bass and the snap of the strings.</p><p>"Show me how," Mikey says, once he's done. "I fucked up in the middle."</p><p>Ray puts his hands on the bass, and covers Mikey's. "So, it goes a bit like this..." he says, pressing into Mikey's back. They practice like that until some bartender announces that they're on in sixty seconds, can they get going, and Mikey's parts sound great. He smiles bright at Ray during <em>Skylines</em>, and it's easily the best show he's ever played. </p><p>-</p><p>They get more and more gigs. Through word-of-mouth and pleading from Frank; Mikey gets them into a few clubs just by asking, because he's Mikey and the social contract is beneath him. Suddenly, they're on the road and Ray's mom is crying in the driveway and taking photos of him to mail to family members and frame and be proud about, and his brother's telling him he better remember him when he gets rich and famous. Leaving Belleville is surreal. He drives as it gets darker, through messy tangles of highways and interstates that make no sense. Gerard sits beside him and yells out directions when he's not fidgeting with the radio or asking if anyone wants snacks.</p><p>It's the wrong side of two in the morning when Gerard yawns and stretches and says, like it's no big deal, "So, you like my brother."</p><p>Ray nearly crashes the fucking car. "Mikey?" </p><p>"It's okay," Gerard says. "He's sleeping." Ray hazards a glance into the rearview mirror. Mikey's out cold, shoved between someone's duffel bag and Frank's weirdly sharp elbows. His Walkman's on, too. "And I think you'd be cute together."</p><p>"How." Ray says. He's struggling to formulate a coherent sentence. "Please don't tell him. I know you guys tell each other everything, but please--don't. And I'm sorry if he's bothered by me liking him, I'll leave him alone or wh--"</p><p>"Oh my God, Ray." Gerard says. "Frankie, wake up."</p><p>"Hngh, says Frank, shaking his head. </p><p>"Mikey's been practically begging Ray to get with him for the past year, right?"</p><p>"Yeah," Frank shrugs, "can I go back to sleep now?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just leans back onto Mikey.</p><p>"What hints?" Ray sputters.</p><p>"His Mikey hints. And just--" Gerard pauses for a moment, flicking ash out the window. "the way he looks at you."</p><p>"But I'm not his type," Ray says. "I thought-- he could have <em>anyone</em> he wanted."</p><p>"And he wants you," Gerard says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. They don't speak for a while; Ray just watches the road and tries to remember how to breathe.</p><p>It's nearly four, time for them to switch, when Gerard mumbles. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you were gay. For my little brother."</p><p>"Ew," Ray says. "You guys are like, mind-melded, you know that, right? He probably knows."</p><p>Gerard grabs his arm softly and lies his head on the console because he sleeps like a freak. "I love you, Ray. I'm really really proud of you."</p><p>"Love you too, Gee," he says, and pulls over so that he can piss and quietly lose his shit over the fact that fucking Mikey Way likes him back.</p><p>-</p><p>He wakes up at eleven, and Gerard's passing out gas station brownies with a fucking cigarette stabbed through the end of one.</p><p>"Happy coming out to Ray," he sings. It's horrible and Frank swerves so that he can watch Ray blow the "candle" out and Mikey smiles softly and hums along. Ray couldn't ask for better friends, maybe just more normal ones. </p><p>"Thanks," Ray says. </p><p>"You owe me twenty bucks and/or a blowjob," Frank says to Gerard, and Ray's just gonna pretend he didn't hear that. "Happy being gay, dude. You like chicks still?" </p><p>Ray nods weakly. "Yeah? I think so." </p><p>"Nice," Frank says, and fist bumps him. "Double the trouble, am I right?"</p><p>"We should get a pride flag for the van," Gerard says. "They make ones for outside, like rain and stuff."</p><p>"And get our tires slashed," Frank says. "I mean, it'd be kinda cool-- if we could afford new wheels every time we leave New York."</p><p>"Maybe one day," Gerard says dreamily. "And we could throw glitter out-- rainbow glitter. We could do a whole show dressed like the Village People..."</p><p>"And you wonder why they call us fags." Frank says darkly. </p><p>"Don't let it bother you," Gerard leans over and grabs Frank's hand, holds it tight. "They just don't know what we are. It's scary to them."</p><p>"Terrifying," Ray mumbles. "Guys who like dick are just sooooo scary." Gee and Frank laugh hard at that, doubling over. It's only then Ray notices how quiet Mikey's been, even for a dude who can be stone-cold silent in a perfectly great mood. He's just staring out the window, watching the sky fall past them.</p><p>"Four outta four," Frank says. "We need to find a straight guy for diversity."</p><p>"You and I are both half-straight," Ray offers. It's fucking freeing to be out. "That makes one."</p><p>"And Mikey," Gerard says. </p><p>"And Mikey what?" Mikey lifts his head from the window.</p><p>"You're what, like a quarter straight?" Frank asks. </p><p>"I don't know. Half, I guess." Mikey frowns. "I guess? But if you chopped me in half, one half wouldn't be like, heterosexual and then the other one is strictly into dudes, you know?"</p><p>"Half, then." Frank says. "This band has one and a quarter of a straight guy." He smiles proudly at the dashboard that says he's going thirty over. "Diversity achieved."</p><p>Ray's friends are fucking ridiculous. He loves them.</p><p>-</p><p>The shows go well. He works hard and Frank plays into that; he's a good match for his energy, just a much of a perfectionist as he is. Gerard's throat is raw and scratchy in the van, but it's warm on stage, loud and comforting, making every venue feel like the Way's basement, like home. Mikey's off, though-- he isn't playing badly, Ray knows he loves this fucking band just as much as the rest of them-- but he barely speaks, only to Gerard, and when he does it's just to ask for a bottle of water or duct tape for his backpack.</p><p>He doesn't do... <em>anything</em>. He plays, tugs his hoodie up, and then sits silently in the back of the van. Sometimes his Walkman's in, but usually he just stares out the window.</p><p>Ray doesn't push. He just takes Mikey's driving shifts and tries to convince him to wash his sweatshirts and hoodies whenever they're in a town long enough to go to the laundromat. It's not until they're rooming together at a cheap motel that he finally worries.</p><p>He's showering when he hears it, and he assumes it's just the pipes or something. The motel is falling apart; they're sleeping on top of the sheets it's so dirty. Ray towels off and fixes his hair and brushes his teeth. They never get to shower, not a good warm shower, and he takes his time. He puts on clean clothes and washes his face until his cheeks are red. He looks good; feels fucking vibrant from tour and living his fucking dream with his best friends.</p><p>"Oh," he says, when he struts out of the bathroom. Mikey's... crying.</p><p>"Don't," Mikey mumbles, when Ray comes closer, but he's shaking so hard, sobbing so fucking violently, that Ray can't help but hold him, wrap his arms around him and stare at the crumbling baseboards of the motel, where the wallpaper's beginning to peel and soak with tobacco. Mikey cries wordlessly, so upset and distraught that Ray's mind conjures up a million terrible things that could've happened. </p><p>"I feel so <em>low</em>," Mikey finally says, wiping his eyes. His face is gaunt and his eyes are bloodshot. His voice is so so broken, and the way he looks up at Ray, like everything's ruined, makes his heart ache.</p><p>"I know," Ray hums. He doesn't have a lot of experience with this, but he's willing to try. For Mikey. "There's hot water. Think you're up for a shower?"</p><p>"No," Mikey says miserably.</p><p>"You'll feel better," Ray promises, but the look on Mikey's face says that might be a lie.</p><p>"No," Mikey repeats, but he stands up and straggles to the bathroom. "Come with me, please," he says, his voice small.</p><p>Ray follows. Ray will always follow Mikey, he thinks, pulling back the shower curtain. He turns it on and averts his eyes as Mikey changes. He still catches things, though: sharp shoulders and his collarbones, the way his boxers slide down his thighs. The first time seeing him like <em>that</em>-- it wasn't supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be this way. Finally, he gets in, sits under the spray of water and hands Ray his glasses.</p><p>There's soap and Mikey starts with it at first, but he moves so slowly, and Ray just-- he wants to help. He wants to be at least the tiniest bit useful in the campaign to Make Mikey Happy. He scrubs at his back, careening over his rib bones, and makes him tilt his head back so his hair gets wet. </p><p>"Shampoo," he says softly. "Close your eyes, okay?"</p><p>"Okay," Mikey says. His hair is greasy but Ray doesn't mind. He rubs it through, admires how different it is to his own hair, thin and fine, so silky. He isn't sure how much conditioner to put in straight hair, so he adds just a fleck and hopes it's enough. Then he grabs a towel and shoves it over the vent so it's nice and warm by the time Mikey gets out. </p><p>"One second," he says, when the water's circling the drain. He hands Mikey the towel and rushes to grab him some pajamas. His duffel bag is heavy; when Ray opens it, his stomach drops.</p><p>It's rattling with pills. Fuck. He knew Mikey liked to party. But <em>fuck</em>. They're all anti-depressants and they're all prescribed and the bottles are all full.</p><p>He zips the bag up, grabs a pair of his own sweatpants and his lucky sweater. Mikey takes them wordlessly and clambers into bed once he's done getting dressed. Ray flicks off the lights and opens the window just a crack, to let the light in. His mom would always say that-- make sure to let the light in, Ray, crack the window, please-- and he never quite got it until now, under the blankets with a boy he loves, in the best worst way possible.</p><p>"I want to go home," Mikey says. "I want to-- it's horrible, Ray," Mikey says, and Ray couldn't agree more. They'll talk about the pills in the morning, he decides. Right now, all he can do is pull Mikey close and listen to his heart beat, slow and strong.</p><p>-</p><p>They struggle through their tour. On the outside, they're on fire, fucking making it in a world that eats their young. Ray's mom is so proud of him; whenever he phones her from gas stations and truck stops she cries and says how the girls at work talk about him, how they all wish their sons were more like hers.</p><p>"I love you, Mom," he says, and wonders if the girls at work would say the same if they found out he was gay.</p><p>Mikey's not exactly better. Standoffish would be a good word. Gerard's worried but wasted; Frank's busy pulling him back from the edge. They go home and Ray never brings up the pills. Mikey doesn't call for three weeks, but Ray sees pictures on MySpace of him at this party and that, girls literally hanging off him, tagged in stupid memes about gigs and fucking scene chicks. </p><p>Something in Ray breaks and he doesn't talk to any of them. Just guitar and home; his part-time job let him come back too, and Belleville's rife with parents willing to pay big bucks so that Timmy and Suzie can learn to play the C chord. He makes money and doesn't answer the phone. He shoots hoops with Frank once or twice, and they don't talk about anything but work and how Frank wants a dog but can't because of his lease.</p><p>He's not mad, just. Mikey's a fucking forest fire. There's only so much smoke inhalation you can take.</p><p>And besides, they all needed a break from each other. Mikey doesn't call, seems to only exist in the snapshots of dirty bars that float across Ray's MySpace dash, and Gerard's working on this new project about a guy who has to kill a thousand evil men to make it back to his boyfriend, so he's pretty much AWOL.</p><p>He plays and plays. The guitar was his first love, he reminds himself. He thinks about hooking up with a guy, but he still can't shake wanting his first to be Mikey. His amp breaks and so he strums unplugged, bent over his guitar so it presses back into him. It's a familiar pressure, a comfort that's been with him on the road. But now when he looks back, there's no shy smiles from Mikey, only empty space where he should be.</p><p>-</p><p>The call comes when he's at work. His manager isn't a dick and so he lets Ray take it outside, leaves the line of customers and presses his back against brick.</p><p>"Hey, man, I'm at work so--" Ray begins. It's an overcast morning, wind whipping at his cheeks.</p><p>"Mikey's-- he's at the hospital, the fucking hospital and I-- I don't <em>know</em> what to do," Gerard says. "He's my baby brother."</p><p>"Why?" Ray says. He feels sick. "Gerard."</p><p>"He's-- he was coming down, he came home and he was coming down off of coke, I think. That's what he told me. And he started fucking crying, just horribly and he told me he wanted to die. He told me he was going to-- to do something and I didn't know what to do. And he wouldn't even hug me, Ray. He was so low. So I called his therapist and she said he hadn't been in and he hadn't been picking up his-- his pills," Gerard inhales deep, and Ray thanks God Mikey at least has a therapist, "for a month. And that he quit going, just fucking stopped showing up and didn't tell anyone."</p><p>"What hospital is he at?"</p><p>"He was crying and saying, saying these <em>terrible</em> things. Like he just wanted it to be over and he was gonna do it. And I had the therapist on the phone, and she told me to call 9-1-1, and I just wanted to make things better. But the way he looked at me. He clocked a fucking EMT, Ray. He was so mad at me. He wouldn't even let me ride in the ambulance with him. He hates hospitals, Ray."</p><p>"Fuck," Ray breathes. "Um-- listen. I'll tell my manager I'm sick and I'll be there, and um, just. Fuck. Can you tell me what hospital he's at? And I'll come as soon as I'm off work."</p><p>Gerard tells him and breathes heavy down the line. Ray feels everything and nothing. </p><p>-</p><p>Nobody's hungry, but Frank buys them all smoothies to drink and sits them down in the food court anyway.</p><p>"Bipolar, huh," Frank says. "That's heavy shit."</p><p>"I didn't know," Ray says to his hands. He doesn't want to look his friends in the eyes. "I didn't even think--"</p><p>"He should have never gone off them," Gerard says. "He's gonna be pissed at me."</p><p>"You didn't have a choice, Gerard," Frank says, and puts his hand on his arm so gently that Ray can actually see the moment Gerard relaxes a little. </p><p>"I'm gonna go see if the mean nurse left," Ray says. "Fucking Cuckoo's Nest bullshit." </p><p>She has, and the guy there is green enough that he lets Ray sit by Mikey's bedside in the E.R. He has an IV of fluids and he looks so small, half-asleep and without his glasses.</p><p>"I hate this part," Mikey says. </p><p>"I'm glad you're here," Ray whispers. "Things are going to be okay."</p><p>"You don't know that," Mikey spits. "They gave me shit to calm me down but the moment I get out of here--"</p><p>"Mikes," Ray says slowly. "They're putting you on a hold. Three days, max. Just so you sober up a little."</p><p>Mikey's eyes turn dark. "Fuck you, Ray."</p><p>"I'm not--"</p><p>"No, fuck you. Fuck you. I don't want to see you. Go away. Just leave. Go." He doesn't want to, knows that this ugly voice isn't Mikey, is withdrawing and unmedicated and sick, but his eyes burn and the nurses glare at him like he's hurting Mikey, so he leaves. When he gets back, Frank and Gerard wrap him tight in a hug. He feels warm but incomplete, like he's in his house but the furniture's gone, a shell of what used to be.</p><p>-</p><p>On the second week, Ray goes to visit. Gerard told him he was done withdrawing, that he <em>wanted</em> to see him, and that was all he needed. There's this room, like in movies you see about prison, where visitors are allowed to go, and cheap coffee that he sips at while he waits for Mikey to come out. When he does, he's wearing sweatpants with no drawstring and a Right Said Fred t-shirt that's ridiculous and has definitely seen better days, but he looks better than ever. He leans across Ray and smiles at him, wide and bright, but still shy as always, into the crooks of his arms.</p><p>"Hi," Mikey says. </p><p>"Hi." Ray drums his hands across the table.</p><p>"I think Gee told you, didn't he?"</p><p>"I wanna hear it from you," Ray says. He sips his burnt coffee and listens.</p><p>"Um. So I'm bipolar. But not like in the movies, where they're crazy and shit? I just get really really high, like out until the sun's up and getting with random chicks. Then I get low, and that's kind of what happened on tour. Except not, because I was coming off my meds too, so it was worse, because apparently the doctor said I was supposed to tell her and taper and find a replacement. But I just felt weird on them, like I wasn't me." Mikey blushes at that. "So I quit cold-turkey."</p><p>"Mikey," Ray says. "Promise me you'll never do that again."</p><p>"Never," Mikey agrees. "It was terrible and I couldn't say anything on tour or you guys'd get your caring all over me."</p><p>"Our caring all over you?" Ray elbows him at that. God, Mikey can be so weird. He's glad to have him back, though. "Sorry we love you, you idiot."</p><p>"Yeah," Mikey says. "I'm sorry, though. About all the shit I put you through. I understand if you want space or anything."</p><p>Ray just hugs him, pulls him close. He's skinnier than before, in a way that makes Ray want to take him to McDonald's the moment he's out, but he just pulls him closer.</p><p>When they separate, after a nurse coughs loudly in their direction, Mikey leans in. "I like you."</p><p>"I like you too," Ray says. "But I don't want our first kiss to be this. I want it to be special." He sounds like a fucking middle schooler, and the worst part is he doesn't care. Next he'll be passing fucking notes with Mikey.</p><p>"You're annoying," Mikey says. "When I get out the first thing I'm doing is kissing you."</p><p>"Not if I kiss you first," Ray says, and it's not perfect-- sitting in a psych ward, and Mikey's eyes are still so tired-- but it's them and his laughter fills the room.</p><p>"Please," Mikey says, and Ray can't wait, doesn't want to wait anymore. He  watches for the nurse to distract herself with the coffee machine, and then he kisses Mikey, hard and fast. He tastes like toothpaste and apple juice, like chalky pills and cigarette smoke if he presses his tongue closer. It lasts seconds but the memory burns bright in his mind.</p><p>"That was practice," Ray says, and they hold hands under the table so that the nurse doesn't see. He's good at keeping things secret.</p><p>-</p><p>
  <em>epilogue</em>
</p><p>Everything isn't perfect. They go on tour again and sit with their backs pressed against the doors of the van, because everyone has a free drink for the guys in the band and nobody takes it well when you say that you tried that once, that it wasn't for you, that if you do one, just have a beer or a single sip, you'll be shitfaced and licking dollar bills within a week. Someone outs Ray to his family, emails his older brother a camcorder video of him and Mikey kissing before a show, so that there's no excuse, no out, and his mom cries when she calls him, begs him to say it isn't true.</p><p>"I love you," she says. "I just don't know <em>why</em>."</p><p>The show after that is fucking electric; Gerard rhapsodizes about how outing someone is never cool, no matter what, and that being your authentic self is important, but not as much as your safety, and people throw themselves up against the stage like he's God. Kids hug Ray after the show and tell him he's brave, tell them that they don't come from white families who'll buy you a fucking pride flag if you come out, and someone has his face tattooed on their fucking ankle. </p><p>They play in the deep South, where people call them fucking witches and someone keys their van. FUCK FAGGOTS it says, and they beg an old man walking a dog to take a photo of them by the van, all four of them grinning in front of the passenger door. Mikey uploads it to their website, and within hours they have hundreds of comments.</p><p><em>Thank you,</em> one says. <em>U guys are so cool!!!</em> says another. <em>Really brave, </em>someone comments. There are horrible ones too: <em>all four??? fucking weird if you ask me, </em>or <em>they look like the bunch of fucking pansies they are </em>or <em>you don't belong here.</em></p><p>That night Gerard covers himself with Sharpie, and there's double security. Kids come pouring in and Ray plays his heart out. Halfway through, when he's chugging water like it's running out of style, Gerard thrusts the microphone in front of his face.</p><p>"Ray, you wanna tell these kids what you think?" </p><p>"I think," Ray says, breathing deep, "I think that things tend to work themselves out, you know?" It's weak, not as inspirational as something Gerard would say, but the crowd goes wild. He looks back, and Mikey's grinning, facing the audience, eyes bright. "Yeah," Ray says. "things'll always work themselves out."</p><p>Frank yells something about keeping the faith, and Ray presses his head against Mikey's when they play the next song, jams out like they used to before a band, sweaty hair and warm eyes and still the same fucking songs, only so much better, so much louder, almost perfect.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you again! pls comment if you have any thoughts! title is from a Jawbreaker song because I'm emo like that. also this fic was lovely to write-- my anxiety has been terrible lately, and i'm starting a new job and shit so it's just,,, worse than the baseline of Already Horrible, so writing is basically free therapy. thank you for giving me an audience for my stories &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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